Hell Hath No Fury
by ArtemisXYZ
Summary: "Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd"... Slade Wilson has only one reason for being in Starling City—to bring down his former friend, Oliver Queen... (After watching episode 2x09, I was struck with the image of how I'd like the Slade Wilson arc to end. Or more importantly, who I'd like to end the Slade Wilson arc.)
1. The Damsel

Laurel tried her best not to vomit as she listened to the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, ripping skin, and bones crunching. The wails and moans of pain were excruciating. Yet, still they—he, because if was only one man beating another—persisted.

Were they going to kill him? Were they going to beat him to death?

If they were, his death would be on her conscience. It was her fault. She was responsible. Would she be able to live with the burden? Would she live at all once they finished with him?

Suddenly, the sounds ceased. The beating stopped.

Was it done?

A bloody mass of skin, muscle, and cartilage was dropped unceremoniously in front of her, and she swallowed the bile that immediately threatened to rise. She stared at the body that a few hours ago had still had a face, an intact skin. She looked down at the bloody, broken body of Sebastian Blood and prayed for the Arrow to make his entrance. He usually did in situations like this, when she found herself in damsel-in-distress mode, so this would certainly be a great moment for his appearance.

God only knew what the maniacs would do to her. Would she end up as unrecognizable as Sebastian? Would they need dental records to identify her? What would it do to her father? Her mother? Jesus, her parents have already lost one daughter, they couldn't lose another one.

_Come on, Arrow, whoever you are, get me out of here! Please..._

"If you're waiting for the man in the hood to come save you, you'll wait for a long time, love," a deep, accented voice intruded.

Laurel looked up from a pair of polished black shoes that stopped a few inches from Blood's dead body, over a tailored business suit, and perfectly knotted tie, into a dark, rugged face with a black eye-patch covering the right eye. The left one was blazing with a mixture of fury, amusement, and hatred.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Laurel," the man said and Laurel was finally able to place his accent. Australia.

Who the hell was this guy?

"Who are you?"

"My name is Slade Wilson."

He cocked his head as if waiting for recognition, but she had no idea who he was.

Slade smirked. "Of course, he didn't tell you. He didn't tell you a lot of things."

"Who?"

"Oliver."

Laurel swallowed. Now everything was making even less sense than before. "What does Ollie have to do with this?"

"More than you know." Slade crossed his hands behind his back. "You see, you, darling, are the first and final piece of the puzzle."

Piece of the puzzle? What puzzle? What was wrong with this guy? Laurel tested the bonds around her wrists just in case, but they wouldn't give. She wouldn't get very far even if they did, with Sebastian's executor still around.

Slade continued his monologue that made him look very alike a Bond villain or a comic-book character, which just accentuated the fact he was obviously insane. "...I'll drive an arrow through his eye."

Arrow? Through whose eye? Oliver's? Granted, Ollie was a prick, much less of a prick than before, mind you. Yes, he was a bastard, liar, and a cheat. But to earn such hatred, such thirst for revenge, was beyond even him.

"You hate the wrong person," she supplied. "What could Ollie possibly have done to you?"

"He killed the person I loved," he said softly, his voice vibrating with fury. "He did the same to you."

Sara? Oliver didn't kill Sara. He'd invited her on the boat with him, but it wasn't attempted murder.

"Tommy Merlyn died because Oliver didn't help him," Slade said with a cold smile playing on his lips. "Wasn't that what you claimed?"

No, in her grief she'd claimed it was Arrow that...Her eyes widened.

"You're quite smart, Laurel. I wonder how you haven't figured it out sooner."

She shook her head. No. Oliver wasn't Arrow. It was impossible. Wasn't it?

Slade leaned closer and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. "Think about it. It _does_ make sense, doesn't it?"

The secrecy, mysterious disappearances, lies...The eyes. Oliver's eyes told the entire story, now that she thought about it, now that she knew what to look for. It was everything in his eyes. The look in them was ancient, the look of an old soul that's seen too much in life and was adamant in righting wrongs. Whatever the cost.

But was it truly possible? He must've received extensive training during his exile...She'd seen the evidence of that training—his body was completely different. And the scars, burns...Were they all from torture or something else...

Why wouldn't he tell her? Why keep it from her? She wouldn't have told a soul. Why not tell her when she'd hunted the vigilante, blamed him for Tommy's death?

"He doesn't trust you," Slade interjected, as if reading her thoughts. "He trusts John Diggle and Felicity Smoak, two people he knows for only a year and a half, with his secret. But not you."

She frowned. He had a point. They've known each other for more than half of their lives, yet he didn't trust her with this. With any of it.

"And the way he treats you. A smart, independent woman, relegated to occasional bed-warmer, when he can't find better company."

She gritted her teeth. She hated that reminder.

"No better than he used to treat you before his exile. Isn't that right, love? He cheated on you, lied to you, manipulated you. He took your sister on a cruise with him. He cheated on you with your own _sister_. And killed her."

She glared up at him.

"Oh, he didn't want to kill her." Slade grinned. It looked as menacing as that of a shark. "If they made it back, you probably have never known, would've probably continued being ignorant, believing his lies and tales. You'd probably be married to the bloke by now, and he'd continue cheating on you."

She strained against her bonds, but it was futile.

"That's the spirit," he said with satisfaction. "I need you angry. Keep remembering, keep thinking about how much Oliver Queen has wronged you."

She looked down at the bloody mess of a body, then back up at Slade.

He grinned again. "You'd like to see him like this, wouldn't you, love? What a blood-thirsty little thing you are. No wonder he's smitten with you." He ran his finger down her cheek. "You remind me of my Shado. In spirit, if not in body. You'll do nicely...If you make it through the next few hours."

Laurel stared up at him with wide eyes, anger mixing with fear as she wondered what he meant. He nodded, almost reassuringly, and walked to a cabinet in the corner and returned with a pressure syringe. She strained against her bonds, and he quickly cupped her cheek in his warm hand, murmuring soothingly.

"It will be over soon," he murmured and pressed the syringe against her neck.

The pain was quick and sharp, and then the burn started. It spread from her neck down her body in a searing flash of agony, making her scream, making her writhe on the chair...Then everything went black.

Λ

Slade cut the binds on her wrists and ankles and laid her down on the floor beside the chair. He hooked her on a portable heart monitor and stared at the screen. Nothing.

He straightened with a disappointed sigh and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, blood marring her cheeks, lips, and hair. She was still beautiful. Not as beautiful as Shado, but beautiful nevertheless. He could see why Oliver was in love with this woman. She was smart, sexy, beautiful, courageous, and she had spunk, spirit. A man could spend his entire life searching for a woman like that, both soft and hard, emotional and cold. A walking, talking contradiction that kept him on his toes, kept him guessing, kept him interested. He'd found such a woman in Shado and Oliver in Laurel Lance.

Pity he won't be able to use her to bring his friend down. Because Laurel would've been the last nail in Oliver Queen's coffin. Betrayed by the woman he loved, the woman whose picture he still carried, the memory of whom had saved his life again and again. The ultimate betrayal. The thing that would've finally brought Oliver to his knees.

He glanced once more at the heart monitor. Nothing. He shook his head.

"You weren't as strong as I thought, Laurel," he told her. "What a waste."


	2. The Scientist

_Eight months later_

Barry Allen stared at the padded envelope on his lab desk with mounting anticipation. He couldn't wait to open it. He took a quick peek at the clock on the wall. Five more minutes before he had the lab all to himself. And those damn clock hands moved so slowly any moment now they'd go backwards.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath. "Move faster." He glanced at his temporary partner fiddling with his computer. "Boot it down already and get out of here."

Seven minutes later, two more than scheduled, he was finally alone. He'd made sure his partner didn't forget anything he might need so desperately over the weekend it would prompt him to return, and now all he had to do was check that the hallway outside the lab was clear, lock the door just in case, and open that blasted envelope.

He tore it open and tipped the contents onto his table. It contained the usual. A piece of paper bearing an IM username and two vials of blood.

Yes. He was close. He knew it. He was so damn close in isolating the right receptor that made the blood cells in the samples he's been receiving in—and studying compared to others he's also been sent—so unique. And with the right receptor, he could create a cure for whatever the hell was plaguing the person whose blood didn't have them. Although he couldn't claim they were plagued by anything since their cells regenerated extremely fast and, over time, became extremely enhanced and resistant.

His long-distance patient seemed—according to the reports he'd at first been given by his pen pal—to have enhanced physical condition, strength, durability, stamina and speed, and appeared to have developed 'powers of regeneration'. Which could easily explain the anomalies found in the blood samples.

His pen pal apparently experienced the same symptoms, only less pronounced. Which prompted Barry's endeavors of finding the cure in the blood. So far, his theory seemed sound. All he had to do now was isolate the particles that blocked the disease from fully spreading through the blood and body of his anonymous pen pal and develop an antidote of some sort.

It was great he hadn't been given a deadline. He worked much easier when not under pressure.

He logged into his IM program and quickly found the username—that was never the same—written on the paper in the envelope. This time it was _Ta-Bitjet_, that a quick Internet search revealed to be an Egyptian goddess whose blood was a panacea for all poisons. Quite an apt username.

Ta-Bitjet: **What's the progress on the antidote?**

Barry smiled. No beating around the bush with this one.

CaptainSlow: **Almost there.**

Ta-Bitjet: **How long?**

Although it was only an IM conversation, Barry detected a note of urgency. He frowned. He didn't like urgency. Not when working on something as delicate as this. One wrong move and months of research can go bye-bye. Not to mention, if he makes a tiny mistake, someone might die.

CaptainSlow: **Not long.**

Ta-Bitjet: **I need a number.**

Barry glanced at the two vials laying on top of his notes. If he worked through the weekend...

CaptainSlow: **Ten days. Maybe a week.**

Jesus. Did he just promise to have the antidote ready—and safe—in a week?

Ta-Bitjet: **It has to be ready by Tuesday.**

Barry stared at his computer screen with his mouth agape. Four days?! Not enough time. Not nearly enough time. And now he was starting to hyperventilate. _Calm down, Allen, calm down. Breathe slowly. Breathe in. Count to five. Breathe out. Repeat._

CaptainSlow: **That's not enough time.**

Ta-Bitjet: **Make it enough.**

CaptainSlow: **How?**

Ta-Bitjet: **You're the genius. Figure it out. On Tuesday you'll receive the name of the test subject.**

Test subject. The person he'd be testing his quickly-put-together antidote on. The person he'd probably kill with his quickly-put-together antidote.

There was no point explaining he couldn't do it, that there wasn't enough time, that he was afraid of doing more harm than good. His mysterious pen pal has already signed off.

Barry dropped his head onto his desk with a bang. His pen pal has waited long and patiently so whatever was going down after Tuesday was big. And Barry's help was needed. Required. Expected. He's never let anyone down so far in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

Determinedly, he lifted his head, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

.

.

In the wee hours of Tuesday morning, Barry was dead tired, over-caffeinated, and he was pretty sure he was starting to see double and hear things...And he had a, what he believed and hoped to be, working sample of the antidote.

He hasn't slept since his last IM session with his pen pal, and he was feeling the strain. And the elation at having accomplished the impossible. He's created Isis. Isis as in Egyptian goddess of rebirth. The rebirth the person infected with whatever the hell it was, was about to receive. Barry wasn't thinking about all the other stuff Isis had been goddess of. Barry wasn't exactly thinking straight, hence the naming of his creation. All he knew, all he had to know, was that he'd been thinking straight when he'd created the antidote. Whatever has happened after was...well, a blur.

He took another long swig of his coffee, which had turned oily and thick—perfect for creating antidotes, if someone cared to ask—and stared intently at his computer screen.

He didn't have to wait long for a name to appear, sent from an unknown username.

**Roy Harper**

Barry started to shake. It started as a tremor, but quickly grew uncontrollable. He knew Roy. They'd had coffee together, discuss movies and video games. They'd gone on a double date together. They were friends...He'd never suspected anything might be off.

He stared at the capped syringe containing the reddish liquid of his newly crafted antidote. Could he do it? Could he risk it? Could he trust his pen pal?

Did he have a choice?

What if whoever was behind this disease, this poison, planned on infecting others? What if they were planning to create a super-powered army? If the poison fell into the hands of the wrong people...

Barry didn't dwell on the possible repercussions of the blackest scenario. There was no time to dwell on them. He backed up his data on a second flash drive and slipped it into the hidden pocket in his jacket. Then, with one last look at the name on his screen, he booted down his computer, grabbed the syringe, and headed for the train station. He could still catch the first train to Starling City.


	3. The Rebel

Roy Harper wasn't a happy camper. Not by a long shot. He had superhuman strength, he healed faster than he got injured, and he couldn't tell anyone. Though someone did know. Someone who's gone through the same thing, was still going through the same thing. Which was good, because Roy could at least talk to that someone, that stranger.

However, Roy's misery this cloudy morning stemmed from the fact Thea hasn't spoken a word to him for the past three days. He must've done something, must have put a foot wrong somewhere. But he had no idea where. And since she wasn't talking to him, he couldn't ask. Or more specifically, he could ask—he had asked, in fact—but wouldn't receive any answer.

Being utterly honest, he knew exactly what he'd done wrong. Or said wrong.

They had been having a romantic starlit picnic on the roof of his apartment building, and somehow the conversation strayed into forbidden territory. That of the vigilante. The vigilante Thea still hasn't forgiven for trying to kill him. Although it was obvious Arrow hadn't tried to kill him—he would've aimed higher than his leg—Thea screamed bloody murder. Quite literally. And he'd gone and defended the vigilante's actions the way the stranger who knew all about his predicament had done all those months ago, and she'd gone all sulky and left.

In hindsight, he should've kept his mouth shut, Roy knew that, but he was fed up with Thea accusing the vigilante of wrongdoing. The guy was her brother, for fuck's sake, though Roy would die before spilling out that secret. Not even Oliver knew Roy knew. He'd seen his face as Oliver brought him back. You just don't forget the first thing you see after coming back from the dead. The guy had saved his life that day, and had been trying to save his ass in the alley when he shot him in the leg. Only Roy had been too stupid, too stubborn, and too blinded by anger and resentment to see it then.

Or after.

It had taken an independent third party kicking him in the face with the cold hard fact, with the truth, for Roy to see beyond the rage. The third party he didn't know, the third party that has apparently been administered the same serum as Roy. The nameless, faceless third party that only contacted him via IM.

It had taken a lot of convincing, Roy was too stubborn to see the truth immediately, but his mysterious friend had persisted. And triumphed. And humbled Roy in the process. He'd thought he was all-knowing, so smart, cunning...Yet he'd known nothing. He'd been just a tiny piece of a greater puzzle. A pawn in a great game of chess someone was playing with Oliver Queen.

And they were winning.

The Arrow had no allies left, but Officer Quentin Lance. Although as a police officer, Lance was bound by law. And didn't know the vigilante's identity so his help was quite limited.

Oliver had managed to alienate John Diggle, his first and main sidekick, by being a complete prick. Felicity Smoak hated him with a passion for being a complete prick. He'd fucked and dumped her. Literally. Although the fucking had apparently lasted for almost a month, so it couldn't be constituted as a one-night stand Oliver Queen had been so famous for. Roy could empathize with her only to a certain point. She had it coming. _Sorry, sister_. She'd fallen for the wrong guy. She knew what Oliver was like, knew whom his heart belonged to, yet she still managed to convince herself she could be the one to heal him, make him fall in love with her.

Tough. She wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last to fall for a guy who didn't return the feelings.

And when she'd realized she'd been just the rebound fling...How does that saying go? 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' Roy couldn't believe someone like Felicity, the sweet, perky blonde could hold so much resentment and rage inside her. She'd defamed him in the media, dragged him to court, sold the blueprints to an invention that would've brought Queen Consolidated millions of dollars in revenue to the competition...And left the company to go work for Kurumira International, a company that had its fingers in so many jars no one knew what the company did exactly. Or who really ran it.

At least she hadn't told anyone Oliver was Arrow. No one has come knocking as of yet. Thank God for small blessings.

And has any of this made any impact on Oliver? Losing his friends and allies? The possibility of those friends revealing his secret? Not even close. The guy simply didn't seem to care. To care that he hurt people, drove them away, that he was alone. Nothing. He obviously wanted to be alone. For the past eight months, Oliver Queen has only been a husk of the man he used to be. Ever since the news of Laurel Lance's death. Ever since charred human remains have been found in the burnt down warehouse. Ever since her and Sebastian Blood's bodies have been identified.

It had hit Roy, too. Harder than he thought it would. Laurel had always been nice to him, even when she'd been trying to catch the vigilante. And after, when she'd tried to find out how Max had died...They'd become good friends. So the news of her death, so violent and premature, hurt. It hurt everybody that knew her more than just in passing. It was amazing how many lives she'd touched, how many people she'd helped. The media had declared her funeral the event of the year, the vultures, with all the people that knew her, liked her, cared about her, and loved her in attendance.

With one glaring exception. Oliver Queen. He didn't go to her funeral. He didn't yet visit her grave, or so Roy's been told. Something must have switched off in the man the day Laurel died. He'd pushed everybody away, destroyed whatever friendships and relationships he had...And took the anger, pain, and anguish out on the unsuspecting criminals of Starling City. A silver lining, there. Though Roy had no idea what Oliver would do once the city was free of crime and corruption. What he would do when there were no more demons to fight but those inside.

All he knew was that Oliver Queen hadn't lost all his friends or allies. He still had one. And his name was Roy Harper. Whatever happened, he'd be there to guard his back. He promised that to himself the day he'd stopped being angry. And he promised it the next day as he stood over Laurel Lance's grave. He had no idea why he'd done that, he'd just felt he had to.

His phone pinged, announcing a message, and he remembered yet another person who Oliver Queen could count as an ally. His mysterious friend. The guy who was determined that Roy forgive Oliver, the guy adamantly searching for some sort of cure to whatever ailed them both.

Which couldn't come too soon for Roy. The superpowers were quite nifty when the occasion called for them, but otherwise a pain in the butt.

He read the message and grinned.

**Train station. Barry Allen.**

Make that three allies.


	4. The Sidekicks

_A/N: Happy New Year!_

* * *

John Diggle was about to clock out—thank God the weekend was fast approaching—when his phone vibrated in his pocket. It didn't vibrate more, which meant he'd received a text message. Or an IM. He frowned. It's been weeks since last someone has contacted him via IM. And that last contact was from an anonymous user with a strange, unpronounceable username.

Was it possible this was it? Was it time? Was the final showdown between Oliver Queen and whoever was gunning for him nigh?

He was itching to read the message, get his bearings. And he was itching, has been itching for months, to contact Oliver. The man needed to know he still had a friend and an ally in him. John knew he'd exaggerated when he'd severed all contact with his friend. True, Oliver hadn't been there when he needed him, needed his help, which resulted in Lyla getting hurt. But she survived. She was alive and well, with just a few scars to show for her ordeal. She was alive, and they were together. They were happy.

He should've contacted Oliver, asked for forgiveness. Jesus, he couldn't believe his reaction at what he'd seen as his friend's desertion. Sure, he'd been afraid for Lyla's life, angry at everybody, but he should not have reacted the way he had. He should've thought before he acted, he should've known better. It had been right after Laurel's death. Oliver had been a wreck—he still was—he had been unable to think about anything but Laurel, his failings toward her, and his guilt.

Thinking about it, John would've probably reacted the same way if the woman he loved had died the way Laurel had. Alone. In a burning warehouse. It must've been excruciating for Oliver. It must still be. He couldn't imagine the agony his friend must be in. He couldn't understand it...But he should've been there for him.

He was still vacillating whether he's done the right thing by staying away. He wasn't sure he trusted the mysterious IM-er completely. The guy had contacted him a few days after Lyla woke up from her coma, right when John had decided to reach out to Oliver, and put the cards on the table. Someone was gunning for his friend, trying to bring him down, bring him to his knees. And they knew about his alter-ego. This other person's plan was simple. Isolate and destroy. Isolate Oliver Queen from his support system, destroy his bonds of friendship and relationships. Destroy his friendship with Felicity and Diggle, and when he's alone, go in for the kill.

The incident that had almost cost Lyla her life, had been carefully and meticulously orchestrated with just that purpose in mind. John would request Arrow's help, but Oliver wouldn't be able—or willing—to help, eaten by grief and guilt. Which meant whoever was trying to destroy Oliver had killed Laurel.

Jesus, if Oliver only knew. He'd probably go berserk trying to find this new enemy. John's contact has been adamant with his request Oliver remain in the dark until the time was right. And John remain away, that he maintain the picture of a friendship destroyed by anger and mistrust. The enemy had to think everything was going according to plan.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the message.

**Pier 17, Warehouse 13.**

No date or time. It could only mean one thing. Whatever was about to go down, would happen on short notice. John needed to be able to move quickly.

.

.

Felicity Smoak rubbed her neck, feeling the familiar pressure building behind her eyes. Oh, what fun tonight would be with the migraine the pressure behind her eyes promised. She'd never had migraines before. She'd barely had a meager headache before all this crap had started. Which just showed she wasn't made for subterfuge, lies, and pretending to stab her best friend in the back.

A white-hot stab of pain zinged from one side of her head to the other. This migraine would be a doozy. Oh, joy.

Serves her right for going down this path. For trusting a stranger. What the hell was wrong with her? Trusting a stranger, someone who she's never heard speak, never looked in the eye. She's gone with her gut, her instinct that told her she actually _could_ and _should_ trust this particular stranger. And she's destroyed Oliver's life in the process.

Oh, God.

He's had enough heartache going with Laurel's death and his grief over it. Over letting her down. He sure didn't need Felicity heaping more problems, more drama on top of it all. But she had, because the stranger—and her gut—told her she had no other choice. She has had to make it look like she hated him, as if their bond of friendship was broken beyond repair.

Oh, God.

She dropped her head on her hands, clasped on the surface of her desk. She should've gone by another route. There were millions other ways she could've accomplished the deception. She should not have gone along with the plan the freaking stranger had devised. Jesus, there had never been anything between Oliver and her. Sure, she'd dreamed and wished, but never hoped. She's always known he was unattainable, that his heart, his soul, his entire being belonged to another. So the whole story about him seducing her and using her to heal his broken heart, and then unceremoniously dumping her, leaving _her_ with her heart broken, was a complete fantasy. And the media gobbled on it like a starving beast.

Oh, God.

What has gotten into her for going through with the lawsuit? Suing her best friend, one of the few people who treated her like a normal human being instead of a freak of nature for her genius-level intellect, for emotional trauma. It should be the other way around. He should sue her after all she's done to ruin his reputation, his character.

Oh, God.

How will she ever be able to atone for it all? How will they fix it? Was it even possible to fix it? Will he understand? Will he ever forgive her? Would she forgive herself?

Selling company secrets was the lesser of all evils she's done. And then her mysterious contact let slip a company name, the same company she'd sold Queen Consolidated blue prints to. The company whose true leader—whose name no one knew—was presumably the one gunning for Oliver. Kurumira International.

It was too sweet to resist, so she'd quit her job at QC and applied for a position in Kurumira. And got it. Now she had free rein to explore the hidden recesses of the company's system and files. She had to find something, a lead, a clue as to who the leader of the company was, what he wanted with Oliver and how to prevent the showdown from happening.

She peeked at the clock on her computer. Nine p.m. on a Friday. Everybody was gone, yet no one would question her still being there, despite the hour. She'd gained a reputation as a workaholic, and she's been meticulously cultivating that image for this exact purpose.

She listened intently for any sounds that might betray someone else's presence, then finally accessed the program she'd built for accessing sensitive and encrypted information. Tonight just might be the night. She could feel it in her bones.

She could feel something else. Only she felt it a little too late.

There was a minute displacement of air, a dark blur, and a flash of long blond hair. Before she could turn, or gasp, Felicity felt a quick pressure against the side of her neck, and the lights suddenly flashed out.


	5. The Villain

John dropped lightly onto the balls of his feet. The view trough his NVGs showed the warehouse to be empty. But then, he was early, with thirty minutes to spare until 10 p.m. Still, the warehouse should not be empty, should it? Or so eerily silent. Not if something as big as destroying Oliver Queen or the Arrow was about to happen.

He frowned at a slight whisper, more of a breath, coming from behind him. It was a trap. Whoever his secret contact was, he wasn't a friend. Damn it, great time to find that one out. The SOB had set him up. Set him up from the beginning.

He turned, ready to do battle, but was blinded by a bright flash of light. Before he could pull the NVGs off, a crippling punch to the stomach brought him to his knees. Another blow to his right shoulder made him scream out in pain as bone cracked. The bastard broke his shoulder with one punch. He had to be on the same stuff as Cyrus Gold had been.

The blow to the face was much lighter, but still packed a punch. John felt himself vacillate between consciousness and oblivion, but knew the latter would win. As he fell onto the floor, he could just glimpse a figure in black with blond hair. Then everything went blank.

.

.

Roy saw stars as he felt a rib, maybe two, crack under the force of the punch to his side. He mentally—and sarcastically—congratulated Barry for his timing at developing an antidote to whatever he'd been injected with all those months ago.

Then it all made sense. Barry's antidote, commissioned by a mysterious person contacting him over IM, the message from his own contact to meet him in the most destroyed and desolate part of the Glades...It had all been planned, his contact had set him up. The guy was probably the same person who wanted to destroy Oliver. And Roy had fallen for it, trusted him. Jesus, he'd grown up in the seedy part of town, he should've known not to trust anyone, least of all someone you've never seen.

And now he couldn't fight back. He was back to his normal strength, while his attacker possessed the superhuman qualities of someone injected with the same stuff Roy had had coursing through his system until recently. Shit.

He dry-heaved, then lifted his head to see who had been lying in wait. He only got a view of long blond hair and a slender, leather-clad figure, before a karate chop to the side of his neck sent him to sleep.

.

.

Barry had just finished his mission that had had him breaking into the basement where Arrow's headquarters was located—which looked much different from the last time he'd visited, when a shove from behind sent him flying. He hit his chin on the metal table and then knocked his head on the concrete floor.

His vision going black at the edges, he saw it wasn't Oliver that's attacked him, and opened his mouth...Then nothing.

.

.

Slade Wilson marched into the laboratory and grinned grimly upon seeing John Diggle, Roy Harper, Barry Allen, and Felicity Smoak strapped into the metal restraint chairs they used to restrain the test subjects before administering the serum. He nodded with approval at the extra care his acolyte had taken with restraining Harper. Extra chains and metal restraints would prevent the young man from using his strength to break free.

He wouldn't bother asking how the most devout of his followers has managed to grab all four of them, he didn't have to know. He'd demanded they be brought to him, and they've been delivered. The last stage of the plan could begin.

Although they've all abandoned him, Oliver would still rush to his former friends' rescue. The man was made that way. What an idiot. Slade had tried to teach him otherwise—one can never regain a lost friendship, and one can never trust a former friend again—but he'd failed. Yet that failure would prove to be his gain tonight.

He walked to the four restrained, unconscious figures, and smirked. Only Felicity Smoak had remained unharmed in the confrontation with his acolyte, the men all had bruises, scrapes, and cuts. With a chuckle, he walked out of the lab and ordered one of the assistants to inform him the minute all four prisoners were awake.

.

.

He reentered the lab roughly twenty minutes later and smiled pleasantly at his four guests. Two pairs of eyes watched him with anger, the other two with a mixture of fear and apprehension.

"It's good to see you all awake," he said. "Welcome to the Kurumira International science division."

Felicity's eyes widened, and he grinned.

"Yes, Ms Smoak, the same company you work for. Why do you think you got the job in the first place, love? No one would hire you after what you've done to Queen." He slipped his hands into his pockets and cocked his head. "I must say, I never took you for such a vindictive little thing. I'm impressed."

"Who the hell are you?" Diggle asked.

"Where are my manners? My name is Slade Wilson, I'm the CEO of Kurumira." He looked at Roy. "The serum you've been injected with was created under my patronage. And from my blood."

He thought he heard Allen mutter something akin to patient zero, but could not be sure since Harper's curses were louder.

"What do you want with us?" Felicity asked shakily.

"You're bait."

"You're the one trying to destroy Oliver."

He nodded. "You've done such a marvelous job of deserting him. You've abandoned him when he needed you the most. Poor sod, losing the love of his life and all his friends in the process."

"What makes you think he'll come?" Diggle asked. "You said it yourself. We're not friends anymore."

Slade shrugged. "Loyalty. It's important to him. It's also highly misplaced in this case. He'll come for you, even though you've stabbed him in the back. And you'll watch as he's brought to his knees. You'll watch as I use one of his own arrows on him." He gently touched the right side of his face. "An eye for an eye."

"You're sick," Felicity whispered.

"No, Ms Smoak. This isn't sickness, this is justice. He took my eye, I'll take his." He paused, breathed deeply. "He killed the woman I loved, I returned the favor."

All four pairs of eyes misted, and he smiled slightly. Laurel Lance had obviously been cherished and liked by all of them. Interesting. This would be fun.

"You killed her?" Harper hissed venomously. "You killed Laurel?"

Slade shrugged. "I gave her a choice. You'll receive the same courtesy, when this is over. Except you, of course, Mr. Harper, you've already chosen."

Incomprehension flooded their faces, then Allen gasped. "You'll inject us with the poison?"

"It's a serum, actually. I call it Miracle. It _is_ a miracle, in fact. It had saved my life once." He grinned. "Brother Daily will administer the serum, and you'll choose. Life. Or death."

Felicity started crying, Allen turned a nice shade of pale green, and Diggle and Harper started cursing him and all his ancestors. He laughed. This was _fun_. Now only two people were missing from the party. His acolyte. And Oliver Queen.

He left the quartet to ponder their fate, yell at the injustice, cry their eyes off...Whatever they pleased. He needed to prepare an adequate message for his friend. Once more, he mentally reiterated his promise to let Oliver live. Death would be too merciful. Oliver needed to suffer. The fact he's lost his friends and allies wasn't enough. It wasn't enough that the love of his life was dead. He needed to _suffer_. What's happened so far was just the beginning. An appetizer.

When he got here to save his former friends...Then his agony would start. Then he'll realize he's truly lost everything. And he'll have to live with it. It'll drive him to his knees, Slade knew, his own knees would buckle if it happened to him. And Slade would relish the sight of Oliver completely broken.

Then and only then, justice would be served.


	6. The Hero

Oliver silently slid down the rope, his senses on high alert. His gut was telling him something was off. Way off. Still, he had a mission to do. Save four people, some of whom have once been among the most important people of his life. Most of whom had split the moment opportunity presented itself.

He mentally shook his head. It wasn't Dig's or Felicity's fault. He probably would've done the same if the roles were reversed. He's been a real bastard these past months, lashing out at anyone brave enough to try to approach him, pushing everybody away, pushing his family away. He's just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be alone with the grief, guilt, and anger eating at him from the inside.

He still wanted to be alone, wanted people to leave him alone. It was better for everybody if they stayed away. He attracted danger like shit attracted flies, and everybody close to him was in constant danger. He didn't want anyone else to die because of him. He's already lost...

He clenched his teeth as another debilitating flash of grief coursed through his body. He shouldn't think of her in such moments. Those memories were reserved for when he was alone, staring into the darkness outside. In the darkness within. But it wasn't easy making his mind go blank. Not for the past eight months. Memories of her were his constant—and welcome—companions.

They could prove a distraction in times like these...They have, he observed with chagrin as a body slammed into his, sending him sprawling onto the hardwood of the empty office. He still felt the impact, even after he was back onto his feet. His opponent has obviously been injected with Mirakuru—or whatever the new mastermind behind the serum called it.

Lights flooded the opulently furnished office, and Oliver took a first, wide-eyed, look at the person who attacked him.

It was a woman. A woman with long, blond hair that fell past her shoulders, dressed in tight, black leather, the top half of her face obscured by a black domino mask. She stared at him, unmoving and silent—not even her breathing could be heard—her stance deceptively loose and relaxed.

He reached back, pulled an arrow out of his quiver, and shot it toward her. It had taken less than a heartbeat, yet she slipped out of the trajectory of the arrow and was on top of him half of a second later.

He didn't care that she was a woman. Chivalry didn't apply. Chivalry be damned. It was killed or be killed. He didn't pull his punches, but she was obviously stronger, faster, and enduring. She didn't acknowledge, not by sound or wince, any of his blows, she just kept pummeling at him. Side, chest, knees, thighs, arms, face.

She was tireless. And she was winning.

He ducked, but her fist still grazed his chin strongly enough to make him see stars. Then she kicked his legs from underneath him, and his head slammed against the floor.

.

.

He resurfaced to cursing, someone calling his name, and sound of crying. His vision cleared, and he spat a curse at the sight of the person looking at him.

Slade Wilson was leaning back against a steel table, ankles and arms crossed, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "Hello, mate," he said. "Long time."

Dread coursed through Oliver's body at the memory of his last battle with Slade. The memory of killing his friend and of the reason for killing him. Have they injected him with something? Was he hallucinating again?

"You're dead," he said hoarsely and gained his feet.

Slade shook his head. "Sorry to disappoint." He straightened and walked to stand in front of Oliver. "You should make sure someone is truly dead before leaving them to rot in the woods, Oliver."

Oliver lifted his bow—why would they leave him the weapon, but Slade swatted it aside like it was a fly.

"Tell me," Slade began, "how does it feel to lose everyone you care about? How does it feel to know your friends have abandoned you? Yet you still came to save them."

"I owe it to them." He did. No matter what's happened in the past few months, Oliver owed it to them to try to save them.

He heard Felicity shakily call his name from behind, heard it echoed in Dig's and Roy's voices. They were all here, watching and listening to his exchange with Slade.

Slade grabbed him by the throat, slightly lifted him off the ground. "You owed it to me," he growled. "I was your friend. Shado was your friend. You owed it to her to save her. You didn't!"

Oliver found himself flying through the air and slammed against the wall. Slade was strong. Stronger than Gold had been, stronger than the woman who ruffed him up in the office. He'd seen his Mirakuru-induced strength before, and foolishly thought he could kill his friend with an arrow through the eye. Was it any wonder Slade had survived?

Slade's face was once more composed into a calm mask as he stared at him across the room. "Now you know how it feels to lose the woman you love."

From the corner of his eye, Oliver saw Felicity burst into tears again. Now he knew how it felt to lose the woman he loved...Did that mean Laurel...That _Slade_ had killed her? The son of a bitch was dead. No matter the strength or regeneration, Oliver would find a way to kill him. No matter how long it took, Slade Wilson was a dead man.

"You will live, Oliver," Slade continued. "You will live, live with the knowledge you don't have anyone, that everyone you care about has abandoned you. I will even return the favor," he touched his right cheek, "and leave you one eye. So you can watch your former friends as they fight the effects of the serum. As they bleed from their eyes."

Oliver gritted his teeth against the pain in his ribs and prepared to lunge.

"But first," Slade said, "I want you all to meet my acolyte. The one who brought you all here." He chuckled. "Some in better state than others." His eyes on Oliver, he called. "Come in, pretty bird."

The woman in black leather silently entered the lab, closed the door behind her, and moved to Slade's side. He caught a lock of blond hair in his hand, and let it slid through his fingers. He murmured something, and the woman nodded and walked forward, stopped again a few paces from where Oliver stood.

"Meet Canary," Slade introduced. "My favorite acolyte. She died and was reborn thanks to my blood, my serum. I trained her. I shaped her. I _made_ her." He grinned at Oliver. "And she hates you almost as much as I hate you."

Oliver looked at the woman, trying to discern from her hidden features who she was. The light was slightly behind her, so her face, framed by her long hair, was cast partly in shadows. Coupled with the mask, it made her face foreign. Who was she? Why did she hate him? What has he done to her? Who was she?

"Remove the mask, pretty bird," Slade prompted. "Let him take a good, long look."

She lifted her gloved hands, brushed her hair back over her shoulders, and slowly removed her mask.

Laurel!

It was Laurel. She was alive. His beautiful Laurel stood before him, staring at him with cold, detached eyes. She was alive. And she was working with Slade Wilson. She had Slade's serum running through her veins. She'd kidnapped Dig, Felicity, Roy, and Barry. She'd ambushed and attacked him earlier.

Laurel was alive.

Laurel hated him.

Laurel was the enemy.

After all he's done to her, was it any wonder she hated him? He'd cheated on her. He'd cheated on her with her own sister. He'd caused Sara's death. He'd lied to her, deceived her, pushed her away, kept secrets...And he'd failed her when she'd needed him the most. When Slade captured her and injected her with his serum. He'd failed her that day and now had to face the consequences. The serum and Slade's manipulations only finished what Oliver himself had started.

She was alive!

Jesus!

Laurel was alive. That was all that mattered. As long as she was alive...He simply didn't care what happened to him. Slade could torture him. _She_ could torture him. They could kill him. He didn't care, as long as she was alive.

Oliver fell to his knees and stared up at her, willing her to do whatever she wanted. He was at her mercy. He'd always been at her mercy.

Slade laughed, Felicity started crying harder, and the three men tied to their chairs shared vehement curses. Oliver had eyes only for Laurel. Her expression was blank, her eyes cold, and not a flicker of movement showed on either her face or in her body. She looked back at him, still as a statue.

"You know what to do, pretty bird," Slade called softly.

She finally moved. She leaned over him, and he fought the urge to close his eyes. This was it. He wanted to look at her, wanted her to be the last thing he saw. When she straightened again, she held one of his arrows. She looked at the sharp tip, and he finally saw a flicker in her eyes. He was unable to decipher it, though, for she turned and walked back to Slade.

Slade grinned as she twirled the arrow between her fingers. He extended his hand, waiting for her to hand the arrow over...

And she rammed it straight into his good eye.

* * *

_A/N: And _that's_ what I'd like to see on the show. That last sentence turned into 'real' action._


	7. The Heroine

Laurel put a little more pressure onto the arrow and felt it slide a little more forward. He punched her in the stomach, but she resolutely kept pushing the arrow deeper into his eye socket.

Why didn't he go down? Damn it, when would the bastard go down? She knew the antidote worked. Roy was back to normal now that Barry has managed to isolate whatever component in her blood that prevented the serum from fully merging with her cells. Oliver's arrows were laced with the antidote, she'd made sure Barry has accomplished that before she'd grabbed him.

So why was Slade still fighting.

Another punch made her see stars. The guy was strong. Stronger than his followers, definitely stronger than her. She'd known that from the beginning. After she'd come back from the dead—and the light at the end of the tunnel was pure bullshit—she'd felt the strength course through the body, but when she'd tried to attack Slade, he'd subdued her like she was nothing. She'd known then that it would take a lot more than brute force to bring him down, to stop him from exacting his revenge on Oliver. She'd known it would take a lot more to make him pay for all he's done. Killing people to achieve his goal of creating a super-strong army, killing Sebastian Blood because the man had had a change of heart, injecting her with the serum just to see whether she was strong enough...Trying to make her hate Oliver enough to help him bring him down.

Her plan had started taking shape soon after Slade had taken her under her wing. She'd demanded he train her, teach her everything he knew. She'd claimed strength wasn't enough, that she wanted to be skilled at combat despite it. That she wanted to beat Oliver Queen even without the extra strength Mirakuru gave her, that drawing out the torture, she'd submit Oliver to, would be more fun than just beat him senseless with only a few punches.

It would seem she was a better actor than she gave herself credit for. Because the bastard had fallen for it. She'd actually succeeded in convincing him she hated Oliver, that she wanted to make the man suffer as much as Slade wanted him to suffer. So he taught her. Hand-to-hand and close-quarter combat, assault techniques, shooting, survival skills...He'd taught her everything he knew, and she'd sucked the knowledge in like a sponge, tucking it away for later, for when she might need it.

She couldn't believe it he's fallen for it all. She didn't hate Oliver. She couldn't hate him. Not the way Slade expected and wanted her to. Oliver had been a selfish, cheating bastard, yes, but he'd paid for it tenfold. First by being exiled on that island for five years, and he continued paying for it, making amends by donning the guise of a vigilante and keeping the streets of Starling City clean and safe from criminals. She didn't hate Oliver. She had no idea how she felt, really. Did she love him? Was she still capable of any deep emotions after what she herself has been through? She knew she cared about him, considered him her friend, which had made her plan a bit difficult to pull out. But she didn't hate him. And she hoped they lived long enough for her to tell him that.

She felt the arrow slide even deeper into Slade's skull, and he roared. It cut off abruptly as he crumpled onto the floor in front of her, but she knew the damage has already been done.

She turned to Oliver, grabbed his arm and lifted him to his feet.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He just stared at her, so she slapped him. "Snap out of it, Queen, I need you lucid right now."

She rushed to her four captives, still restrained in her chairs, and set them free.

"You broke my shoulder," Diggle spat.

"Not the shoulder, just beneath it," she explained. "It's a clean break, it should heal quickly." She led Felicity to the farthest corner and told her to crouch on the floor. "Or, if you prefer, I could inject you with Mirakuru. There's a 50:50 chance of survival, though."

She murmured quiet 'sorrys' to Roy and Barry as she directed them to the same corner as Felicity. "You did good with the antidote, Barry," she said softly. "Keep the syringe in your pocket safe for me, okay, I'll need it after we're done here."

There was no chance she was staying strong. The serum didn't agree with her, probably because her body kept rejecting it. She could live with occasional muscle cramps, but it were the headaches and nosebleeds that she didn't want to live with.

She helped Diggle to sit beside the other as he frowned up at her. "It was you. On the phone."

She nodded. "Guilty."

"You made me lie," Felicity accused.

"Slade needed to think you'd abandoned ship. Sorry. If there'd been another way, I never would've made you do it."

Oliver grabbed her wrist and turned her toward him. His eyes were narrowed and he looked angry. Who wouldn't be? "You have a lot to explain."

She nodded. "Later," she said. "After we get out of here." She effortlessly lifted the steel table and placed it, on its side, in front of the four figures crouched in the corner. "This should do it. Don't move. Don't even think about it," she said sternly to Diggle. "You stay put or I'll break your other arm as well." She looked back at Oliver. "Grab your bow and get ready to shoot. Not everyone is under the effect of the serum, so use the arrows sparingly."

"What are you talking about?"

"Barry laced your arrows with the antidote."

Barry looked at her then nodded. "I did. It works quickly, as soon as it hits the system."

There was a rattle on the other side of the door, and she knew it wouldn't take long for Slade's followers to crash the party.

"I'll tell you to shoot or not to shoot," she said, looking at Oliver.

He was silent for a heartbeat and then nodded. She smiled slightly. They were far from okay, but at least he trusted her. She met four pairs of eyes over the edge of the steel table. They all trusted her. Even after all that's happened in the past few hours. She'd be damned if she let them down.

"Okay," she said and walked to the center of the lab, feeling Oliver place himself a few steps behind her and to the side to have the best line of sight.

Something slammed against the door, and she slowly wiggled her fingers at her side and rolled her shoulders. This was it.

The door crashed open...And all hell broke loose.

She called to Oliver to shoot and charged the first man who came through the door. What came next was a battle that to a casual observer might've looked like it has been carefully rehearsed by her and Oliver. It didn't look at all like an impromptu partnership between two ex lovers who weren't exactly on the best of terms at the moment.

She took care of the assailants that weren't Mirakuruised, and Oliver's arrows took care of the rest. When she stopped calling to him to shoot, he quickly joined the fray, and proved to her that his bow could be used for more than just shooting arrows.

"What now?" Oliver asked when their assailants were either unconscious or writhing on the floor. "Did you devise a plan for 'after' as well?"

She sighed softly at the angry tone and the militant gleam in his eyes. Maybe she could put off this moment of reckoning for a little while longer.

"The Arrow came to save his four friends, who, by the way, have abandoned him only in order to draw out the enemy," she said as she helped Diggle to his feet. "While on the mission, he succeeded in rescuing another person whom the bad guys had held hostage for months."

"Oh, let me guess," he interrupted. "Laurel Lance."

"The woman everybody thought dead," Roy added, his eyes conveying a reluctant admiration.

"I think it's a good plan," Laurel said. "Don't you?" She extended her hand toward Barry. "Hand it over."

He stared at her for a few heartbeats, then reached into his jacket pocket, and retrieved a syringe with a reddish liquid. She made to take it, but he quickly pulled it back. "It's only been tested on a subject with a regular reaction to the poison."

She snatched the syringe from him. "I'll take my chances."

"Wait—" Oliver warned, but she has already injected the antidote into her neck.

There was no burn, no feeling of...Something. Nothing. Did it even work? There was only one way to find out. She took a step toward the steel table, when her knees gave out.

She didn't hit the floor, Oliver was there to intercept her. "Are you okay?"

She smiled wanly. "Just weak..." The words sounded slurred. "And tired."

.

.

Oliver slowly lowered her onto the floor, placed her head onto his lap, and frantically indicated to Barry to do something.

Barry quickly crouched beside them and grasped her wrist. "Pulse is steady. She should be fine."

Oliver looked down at her. "I guess you're going to the hospital as well."

She smiled softly and closed her eyes.

Oliver looked at his four friends, who have never truly abandoned him, and shook his head. As Felicity called Quentin Lance, he looked back down at Laurel and grinned. She was in his arms again. "If you think this will get you out of the big talk, think again."

She wouldn't get out of it so easily. They would talk. They'd talk some more. And they would plan. She might not be super strong anymore, but that didn't mean team Arrow couldn't get another member. Interesting concept.

But first she'll have to wake up. And the original team Arrow needed some patching up.

He stood, hoisted her up into his arms, and winked to his four friends. "Let's get out of here."

**The End**

* * *

_A/N: Well, this is it. Maybe not the best ending ever, but there you have it. Thanks for reading._

_Hugs, A._


End file.
